This morning it was a damp patch of dirt, the color only slightly darker than the surrounding cinnamon brown. Yesterday it had been a muddy puddle; all that remained of the vast and fairly deep puddle that had obstructed the rocky road that runs in front of Sierra Leone’s house. I’d watched the water suspiciously for weeks, eyeing the slight movements on its surface that I was certain were mosquitoes eggs.

Instead, tadpoles.

On our way to the Friday market, camera in hand for once, I stopped to take a closer look. And sure enough, there were dozens of tadpoles squiggling about the muddy water. Fighting for air or food I really don’t know.

I looked up to the cloudy sky and hoped for rain – for their sake. Their home had been receding steadily in the intensity of heat in the past few days.

But last night there was no rain. And this morning, as I walked by the puddle, I saw the small black bodies encrusted in drying mud, flies swarming where future frogs had swarmed before.

And it all comes down to timing in life – and in death. Looking up at the sky this afternoon the sky broadcasted its intent to rain. And I watched – and listened – as the winds picked up and water fell from the sky cooling the heavy air.

Too late for the tadpoles though. Rain pounding against SL’s roof, the corrugated tin vibrating against the wind, mangos and butterpears (avocados) falling from trees heavy with fruit.